I’m crawling on the floor, feline, and this is god in her million faces.

The muse has come again tonight, a constant gardener. She’s come in, and nothing else matters but to sip from her cup. She always has the most appropriate elixir to bring truth to life. Even the candles light is dim in the midst of her illumination.

There’s an old familiar friend that cycles back around now and again to join the party. It’s tempting to fall into that pit. It used to be the easiest choice on the menu. But with creation as my lover, the open loops seem to come full circle in resolution as the season is on to something of a different texture.

This why I show up to the digital canvas. It doesn’t judge like I do. It’s bold in its stark white invitation. A blank slate to learn, initiate, and propagate beauty. But like the winter earth into spring, I do not start from scratch. I am gifted the fertility of all who have come before, and the ways I have only always been awake.

When you’re awake, things are ticking so fast the processor can hardly keep up. Life is hungry for itself. Like people. I am less interested in the hunger than your unique cure, when the lights go on inside.

Tonight, the light came in like a gentle dimmer switch. I sometimes endear this lumination as the muse, but I’ve seen her in the mosquitos, in the dirt roads, in the mooing cows, and the fast-paced city lights.

This is her in silence, in the honk of the horn, in the guns exploding, in the gas, in the mourning. This is her in the lettuce growing, and the moon as she’s showing me now how full life can be.

Negotiating fiercely with the unknown, I cannot permit death to take me this way. Instead, I open the animal of doubt inside this crunchy rib cage so I can smell my own blood and feel the pulse of my heart beat that connects me to all living things.